Mind over Memory
by KCS
Summary: My entry into a LiveJournal challenge for the word "fear." Details inside . Early fic, dealing with one of Holmes's more disturbing habits and an early Watson's reaction to it.


_This is a oneshot in answer to the first bi-weekly challenge at the new LiveJournal community (see link in my profile if interested). The lines in italics at the beginning were what we were given to start with, and we had to continue with the prompt of_ fear _or_ phobia_. My first time at trying an early Watson voice, or early fic period since_ Worth and Choice_._

* * *

_I did not dare look at him or even move, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous_, for the rational part of my own mind recognised that the fear was just that: ridiculous – and yet, another part of my knowledge knew that such fears cannot be explained or even trained away. Rationality has no part in surmounting a phobia or a fear, and as such is of no use against an entirely involuntary reflex.

And in this case, a reflex that had been engrained into my mind and subconscious actions for what yet felt like centuries, in the Second Afghan War; an impulsive fear that I could not master no matter how fervently I wished for the staid control and enviably cool composure of the man with which I had taken up residence in London less than a year before.

I envied the man his nervous control and apparent detachment from all things disorderly and illogical. Thus the main reason for my praying fervently that my fear would not become evident to him, as the probabilities for its revelation grew exponentially during each case in which he was good enough to take me along with him.

I had managed so far to escape that embarrassing fate, and sadly enough it was not during one of his – our? – cases that he discovered my cowardice. Rather, it was one rainy and thoroughly wretched day in Baker Street that he exposed my weakness.

After eight months of living in London, I should not still be gun-shy.

While under normal circumstances I enjoy thunderstorms and the vernal refreshment they bring, this night in particular I had tossed and thrashed and nightmared fitfully for what seemed like eons, the dreamy visions punctuated by a roar of cannon and rifle fire that was in reality only the thunder rolling outside, shaking the house and my very bed-frame in its savage ferocity.

I was not in a very sweet temper when I finally surrendered the hopeless battle to force Morpheus to do my bidding, and I limped down to the sitting-room, wishing only to sit before the fire and nurse my throbbing limbs. Perhaps Holmes's company would prove sufficient to drive back the terrors that lurked like waiting predators at the edges of my mind.

My new friend was pacing nervously about the room when I entered, trailing a blanket behind me like the fallen banner I had seen spread blood-stained across the sand in my last nightmare. I perceived at a glance the tobacco ash upon the floor, the flurry of newsprint by the settee, the over-brightness of his austere eyes.

He was whole-heartedly and unspeakably bored.

At least he had not yet attempted one of those hideously cringe-inducing compositions upon his violin. He glanced up at me with a snap of his quick eyes, pausing in his pacing to look me up and down as he did every morning (to sharpen his deductive skills, no doubt, but I had better things to do than complain about being so dissected and inspected).

I nodded tiredly at him, not bothering to see if he returned the gesture, and then unhurriedly lowered myself into my armchair in front of the glowing coals, where I curled up as best I could and huddled down into my soft rug. Already half-comatose from lack of sleep and warmth of fire, I vaguely perceived that the room was growing a bit fuzzy, like a watercolour painting being left out in a drizzle, but thought no more of it until a small poke at my shoulder startled me.

I started with a small gasp, hearing a hasty apology from somewhere before me. After rubbing my sandy eyes clear, I saw Holmes standing in front of me and offering me what I assumed was the last of the coffee. Steam curled up in tiny ghostlike wisps from the shimmering liquid to bathe my face in warm vapours, and I accepted the drink with gratitude.

My friend looked ridiculously pleased that he had managed to think of something kind to do for another person (an activity which by his own admission he usually failed at), and skipped off into his bedroom to find something; I could hear the crashes and the cursing coming from somewhere like the back of his wardrobe.

I sipped slowly, barely noticing I was even consuming the coffee, and turned myself so as to be curled up in a corner of the chair, my head slumped upon the curved back and my hands resting the cup and saucer upon the arm in case my fingers began their unaccountable tremoring again. I could hear distant thunder as the storm began to make its way back across the city from the river, carrying a shower of foggy silt with the rejuvenating precipitation.

I closed my eyes for a few moments, the increasingly steady thrumming of rain upon the roofing beating soothingly into the room like a drum-beat that did not cease for man or element. A door slammed in a fit of Holmesian nervous energy, and various clinks and clanks seemingly came from the deal table.

Fifteen minutes later, the storm had begun again in earnest with a spectacularly choreographed spray of lightning. Evidently being startled by the ensuant thunder was not conducive to experimenting, for Holmes relinquished the idea in despair, settling for rummaging through his desk and then mine (I was too exhausted to protest the familiar but still cavalier treatment of my things; besides, I was quite accustomed to it by now).

I vaguely remember him humming loudly and banging things about in time to the tune in his frantic nervousness to pounce upon something with which to occupy his mind, but frankly I probably would not have heard had he spoken to me, so strained was I from attempting to rein in my nerves as the thunder exploded outside.

I shivered as another fracturing boom rattled the windows with enough force to make me wonder if they would stand the strain. My hand clenched round the coffee-cup, and I firmly yanked my mind back into the present, refusing to allow my imagination or my emotions to play havoc with my sensibility.

That all changed, when the relative peacefulness of the sitting room splintered into a thousand shards of chaos, as an explosion even louder than the thunder detonated in my ears along with a sudden whiff of the too-familiar smell of cordite. Then another, and then another, and two more, quick and rapid and staccato bursts of gunfire.

I froze for only an instant at the sound, my mind automatically filling the silence in horrifying clarity with the sounds of the screams that I knew would follow. The cozy fireside disappeared as my imagination performed the ultimate betrayal, flinging me for one instant across a continent and a season into the searing heat and summer of Afghanistan – but that one instant was enough for my nerves, shot to pieces as they were after less than two hours' sleep in this thunderstorm.

The gunfire, the screaming, the men diving for cover – _not again! _It was over, I _knew_ it was over – it had been for almost a year; I had vanquished these visions…hadn't I?

I knew what was coming – had seen it, heard it, felt it, and smelled it a hundred and more times in my nightmares. I knew the pain, the burning agony that would convulse my entire body before I struck the hot sand with enough force to make me see stars, the freezing chill that would then crawl over me as shock set in, and the deathly quiet that would settle as my frozen brain registered that I was going to die alone here in the desert…

I did not realise I had dropped the coffee-cup until it shattered on the hearthstones. A deafening clap of thunder heralded and masked the sound of its breaking, and I huddled up miserably in a reflexive instinct to hide from what I now realised had been a terrible trick of the mind; for now the mists were clearing and I could see the fire glowing, a comforting aura of peace in our sitting room.

I was shaking, my mind still threatening to petrify me into immobile stone where I sat as the thunder boomed again. Then, just as I was wondering what exactly had sent me into such a deathly mental spiral, a series of clicking noises reached my ears from across the room. I well knew the sounds, even in my disturbed state; a gun being loaded.

I clenched my fists in the blanket round my shoulders and turned my head at last. I was too distraught to have formulated any idea as to what I would see, but the last thing I should have expected to perceive would have been Sherlock Holmes sprawled three feet away on the settee, calmly aiming his hair-trigger at a cardboard target set up across the room, backed with a few old cushions from heaven only knew what.

The man had some odd quirks, I knew – but this was outright insanity.

He blinked as I turned toward him, and only then did a look of sudden guilt cross his face, as if he were entirely unaccustomed to thinking of what repercussions his actions might have upon another; though I had noticed he was slowly improving in that particular area.

"I completely forgot you were sitting there, Doctor…I hope you were not asleep?" he asked abashedly.

I tried to voice a negative, but found that my throat still would not function. I shook my head instead, and he relaxed slightly, curling one arm behind his head as he leant loosely backward. "Ah, excellent. I am working on a study of trajectories, Doctor, if you are interested. You see, it is commonly believed that…"

I swallowed hard on the sharp object obstructing my throat passage as he prattled onward regarding his new study. While I was appreciative of his continued efforts to entertain me with his methods, and to teach me about various aspects of them, upon this occasion my sole desire was to get out of the house before he began the shooting again.

He aimed the revolver carefully at the target once more, and I hastily swung my legs over the chair to stand and get out of the room; I did not care where so long as it was out.

"So you see, when a man is accustomed to shooting with one hand, and then switches over to his left," here he suited the action to the word, "with the proper amount of compensation for the weaker muscles it is still possible to fire accurately. Handed-ness is a large factor in determining murderers, and yet it is possible for most men to fire with the opposite hands –"

I had made it past the hearth and was rounding the settee when the gun went off again to punctuate and demonstrate his blithe lecture upon murder victims. I gasped and started, completely not expecting the shot when it was fired and in such close proximity, and my hand immediately grasped for the back of the couch for support. Unfortunately, my already less-than-steady balance was completely off by this point and my groping fingers missed, skidding off the leather in a shrill creaking. My remaining imbalance sent me sprawling in a painful heap upon the carpeting, jarring every bone in my body with countless little jabs of aching embarrassment.

I did remember to land upon my right shoulder, and so saved myself a great deal of pain, though the blow to my pride was not much less agonizing. To make a wretched situation even worse, another shot and then another unexpectedly exploded from behind me before I heard Holmes's exclamation and the firing ceased.

But it had been enough. I had managed to sit up at least, placing my back against the solid leather of the couch, and pulled my knees up to lock my arms around them in an effort to calm my racing heartbeat and force back the demons of my imagination. I knew I was shaking, trembling so badly I could scarcely keep my hand locked over my opposite wrist, but I could not seem to stop it. I clenched my jaw and rested my brow upon my knees as I tried to regain control over my breathing at least, knowing I had to surmount this irrational fear of gunfire if I had any hope of leading a normal life in the future. A man who would freeze in a crisis was unreliable and unfit for anything, and I unfortunately at the moment fit that bill too perfectly.

I jumped when a hand hesitantly landed upon my good shoulder, and I felt rather than saw a weight settle beside me on the floor.

I did not dare look at him or even move other than to tremble more violently in an effort to stop the motion, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction to the gunfire; perhaps I could explain it as just frail nerves or a reaction to the thunder or that I was not feeling well (all of which were in part true). If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous. He undoubtedly harboured no such fears of anything – _could_ not, in the profession he had chosen.

And after all I had endured, to be more frightened of gunfire when safely back in London than I had been upon the battle-field was galling in the extreme, despite the fact that try as I might I could not seem to conquer the power of my memory. I was afraid, to put it purely and simply – afraid of a noise, not even of a person or emotion worth fearing. I should not still be having these problems eight months after my discharge.

The hand on my shoulder tightened awkwardly as a violent shudder ran through me, and above the frantic pulsating of my heart in my ears I heard a quiet voice, atypically gentle of the man. "Doctor…are you hurt?"

I shook my head in the negative, holding my breath in an effort to steady the respirations and to provide more oxygen to my pounding head, and then let it out in a slower, harsh gasp. The fog around my head began to clear slightly, and I lifted my head from my knees finally to meet the confused face of Sherlock Holmes as he knelt at my side, looking entirely lost and bewildered.

"What is the matter, Doctor?" he asked, thoroughly confused by my denial of being hurt no doubt, if I could take a tumble like that for no apparent reason.

"Nothing, just…just nerves. I am sorry." I mopped my brow with the back of my wrist, trying to hide the fact that my hands were still shaking like a palsied man's. His eyes sharpened momentarily, and I felt my face grow warm in the knowledge that he always could see the truth through any smokescreen of deception; another reason he was the best and only of his profession.

My shame at realizing he probably could read the whole thing in my face only increased when he without a word rose to his feet and extended a hand to help me to mine. After hesitation for a moment or two I placed my right hand in his and allowed him to pull me to my unsteady feet.

He reached out and gently caught my arm with a murmured "Steady, Watson…" as my leg protested in the most painful terms the abruptness of the movement. For a moment despite the shame I leaned gratefully on him until my center of balance returned.

I was still shaking, feeling perspiration forming upon my brow and then freezing as I shivered with cold. Within moments, I found myself seated upon the couch; Holmes kicked the revolver he had been using underneath the furniture and then fetched the blanket I had let tumble onto the remnants of the coffee-cup.

He shook it vigorously to ensure no shards of china remained in it and then moved behind me to drape it around my shoulders. The kindness of his actions put me slightly off-guard, though I knew the recognition of my irrationality was only being delayed. I could only cringe helplessly while awaiting his verdict.

True to my supposition, he left me to move over to the sideboard, selecting a decanter of liquor. "You are gun-shy," he stated the obvious in that clinical, detached voice of his that sent more shivers down my spine than the actual gunfire had done.

He measured a tiny amount of the liquid into the bottom of the extra coffee-cup and then poured the steaming brew over it. More than that I did not see, as I cast my eyes downward in unmitigated humiliation that I had been found out at last.

Steam clouded my vision suddenly, and I mechanically took the cup from him without looking at him. The couch creaked as his thin weight settled down beside me, but at a respectful distance.

"How long have you known?" I asked lowly, closing my eyes for a mortified moment.

"Only just now, though I have suspected as much for quite some time, because I have noticed you never sleep well on stormy nights. Drink, Watson, before it cools. I will admit that it completely slipped my mind this morning, however, and for that I…I must apologise."

I swallowed the tiny sip I had taken and looked sideways at him in surprise, for he had never before apologised for something that was entirely my own fault. The fact remained that I should not be prone to panicking when I heard gunfire. His indoor revolver practice was eccentric but not intentionally harmful; he had no control over my irrationalities.

Holmes was frowning, lacing his thin fingers together and then unlatching them to fiddle nervously with his cufflinks, before repeating the entire process. I sipped miserably at my coffee, wishing the whole discomforting scenario would just go away, that my mind would cease to replay the sounds and images over and over and over even as I sat there now –

I heard a loud rattling, and realised with a shock that my hands were shaking so badly the cup was clanking against the saucer. At the same time, Holmes's thin, acid-stained fingers closed around mine to hold them steady. The movement was so rapid I doubt if he thought about it, and to be frank he looked scarce less surprised than I at his own actions.

"Doctor," he said finally, frowning comfortingly into my eyes, "you seem to be labouring under the impression that a fear of that magnitude is somehow demeaning or ill-founded."

I went completely still and looked at him, not believing what I had just heard. "Isn't it?" I whispered miserably, casting my eyes down after a moment in an inability to look at his face.

"Perhaps you consider it so, but I highly doubt anyone else would," he replied matter-of-factly. His hand tightened slightly around mine and I glanced back up, much heartened by his calm tone and his reassuring words, the same tone and voice he used with whole success on petrified clients.

"No?"

"Certainly not," he snorted, his brows knitting themselves into a dark, fuzzy knot. "I profess to know next to nothing about politics and recent history, but I do know what atrocities you have to have seen, Doctor. In my, admittedly non-medical, opinion, it is only natural that your memory control your mind at times, especially when startled as I unwittingly did to you this morning."

I swallowed and felt some of the tight tension leave my temples and neck at his cool, logical words; whether they were true or not, they were highly reassuring.

For a moment we just looked awkwardly at each other, for the first time in a long time at a loss of how to continue the conversation; he probably out of his depth with my emotional difficulties and I trying to find my voice again.

Finally I did. "Thank you, Holmes," I whispered hoarsely.

He gave a quick jerking nod and then, as if realizing he still had his hands round mine, dropped them as if they were red-hot pokers and had singed his fingers. I set the cup down, and his eyes followed me sharply as I rubbed at my forehead and then reclined wearily against the couch.

I stiffened when he reached down and pulled the revolver from its resting place, holding it carefully in one hand. "You know you cannot remain like this forever, though, Watson," he said gently, hefting the weapon slowly.

I sat back up, my relaxation fleeing me on the instant, as he looked at me with the steel in his eyes melting into a soft grey mist. I stiffened even further when he moved closer to me and half-hesitantly put a hand upon my shoulder for the second time that morning.

Then without warning he fired the revolver again at the target.

I jerked in his grip at the explosion, trembling and clutching the settee cushions for a moment; closing my eyes before I swallowed down the urge to run from the room – for he was right, I could not go on like this forever.

His hand clenched in warning, and I tensed in anticipation for the next round. This time I only jumped slightly, my breathing increasing rather rapidly as I tried to control the desire to surrender to panic, fought desperately to force back the wraiths of memory that flitted about the edges of my consciousness like so many spirits unable to find their resting-place in this world or any other.

"You know I can only do this during thunderstorms," Holmes ventured next, releasing me for a moment to re-load. "Because otherwise the neighbours would be having fits about the noise."

I gave a faint laugh, firmly tamping down the rising pitch of my voice as I recognised possible hysteria. "It cannot be any worse to them than your violin-playing, you know."

He looked entirely too miffed at that though his eyes were gleaming in good-humour, and I schooled my features into an innocent expression, to which he merely smiled and aimed the gun again. Before shooting it this time, however, he leant back and curled his arm around the back of the couch – not touching me this time, but there all the same for support if I so required.

I flinched and closed my eyes when the explosion reverberated around the room but did nothing else, and felt rather than saw his smiling approval.

"You know I've not ever seen you fire a weapon yourself, Doctor," he mused aloud, and guardedly at first until he saw me more inclining my head toward his words than still battling a lingering fear. "You have to be a fairly decent shot, I suppose?"

I opened my eyes and looked at him from their corners, refraining from self-satisfied smirking. "I have been told so, yes," I replied cautiously.

"Do demonstrate then, by all means," said he, proffering the revolver with a flourish and indicating the target.

I felt my lips twitch in a small smile, for though he had been rather close to the inside of the circle he had not come close to hitting the small bulls-eye. I aimed carefully, cocked the gun, and then fired.

Poor fellow, he sulked the rest of the morning while I slept peacefully dream-free before the fire.


End file.
